Final Confrontations
by Albareth Dragon
Summary: Trying to do a realistical view of different types of characters living and dying in the various modes of the tournament. The tale of a man's last thoughts, last words. How a human mind, normal human mind, works in the desperation of its last moments.
1. The Legacy of a Warrior

--- Final Confrontation  
  
The dim light echoed off the metallic bars of his environment, lighting it up in flashes of red and blue, disappearing as fast in vain.  
  
There were faces, many of them. Some he knew, some were merely a beast in the zoo, another target, another adversary.  
  
He closed his eyes, his weary, weary eyes, for a precious moment; savouring the metallic feel of the weapon in his hand, the shadows that hid him and the powers that cloaked him. He savoured the feeling of safety, a concept that once was real, now just a feeling.  
  
He could hear them out there, laser shots echoing non-stop out in the darkness, like a primeval war going on into eternity. He knew his cover was short enough, he would not remain hidden long. Soon he would be among them, one of them. Soon he would be that war, nothing less, and nothing more. The essence of his existence would be that war.  
  
The weapon felt smooth to the touch, an ally, when there were no others. It was his only hope to remain sane, his only hope to reach out and embrace his life, not his death. The trigger was an extension of his finger, the ammunition an extension of his power, his armour just another layer of skin.   
  
He did have confidence in himself, he had lived long enough to earn that, he had progressed well. He knew where it all was going though; he was just another drop in the sea to the big shots in the top leagues. Death would always come; he had known it for a month now, the only month of his life as far as he was concerned.  
  
He felt that familiar shiver down his spine, a touch of pure cold throwing him back into reality. Death was out there, waiting. He had no choice - but to embrace it.  
  
And so he charged, a moral being among mortals, embracing immortality among death. His armour clung to his skin like only metal can where the tunic, wet with his own sweat, torn and dirty through reuse, was non-existent - a reminder of the fear that had festered deep within him.  
  
"To death and immortality!" He yelled. He had heard something similar often enough, coming out of his own body in some cases. Now it echoed out in the darkness. Sometimes he wondered if this body truly was his, or if perhaps he was just another machine, organic one, like all the others.  
  
He tightened his grip on the shock rifle, stroking the surface as gently as a woman's hand. He was a machine. That energy, that weapon of death, made him that. If he would not be that now, soon he would not be at all.  
  
"For life!" He screamed. Screamed with the last of the air in his lungs as he raced out. Raced out into the open arms of death. The sole of his shoes hit the platform with terrible noise.  
  
"Show yourself," He screamed, moving in circles, strategically jumping in the corners, watching for every movement. They appeared soon enough, machines, as he himself was. Dressed in scarlet and crimson, brown, green and yellow, they jumped out of the doorways, muscles bulging. Weapons drawn to the point of no return. There were flashes of blue and green as the battle begun, as death begun.  
  
"So you have returned my dear friend, death my friend." He cried out as he barely dodged a rocket aimed his way. "Death, fellows. Can't you smell it?"  
  
The adrenaline pumped through his veins as he grabbed a minigun off the floor and began emptying entire clips in all directions.  
  
"It's here for us!" He yelled. He rolled sideways behind a column. There were bodies everywhere; there were many this time.  
  
For some reason he felt it now. He felt right, complete. He had fulfilled his purpose yet again. Fate was perhaps on his side.  
  
Yet again he jumped out in the open, opening fire in all directions, throwing himself down while at it. He screamed into the air with all the air in his lungs:  
  
"Run, humans!" For a moment, he thought them all more than they were, more than they ever would be - more than he ever would be. He thought himself human. That pride would be his final fall.  
  
He turned 'round to see the enforcer by his stomach, an execution by the hands of another.  
  
He heard one single shot fired, sounding as if out of infinity. He fell down, first to his knees, before the man - eyes locked to the pupils of the man's eyes as they expanded and retracted before his. He knew him, he thought, as he watched the empty clip falling to the ground with peculiar slowness, and heard the strangely loud clatter as it hit the ground.  
  
The man lowered his pistol, outright grinning at him. It struck him at his very last that he knew him - he had once been his friend. Once, when they were human.  
  
"Run humans?" The man snorted.  
  
"Good idea!" He smiled in a self-satisfied manner, a wicked smile, a sadistic smile. His antagonist, his final antagonist, enjoyed it - enjoyed watching his death. Had the situation been reversed, he would have enjoyed it too.   
  
Everything went black now as he fell down at the man's feet, at Xan Kriegor's feet, at his friend's feet. Dead, his only legacy a phrase, his only acquaintance his slayer.  
  
So much for being human. 


	2. Perfection

--- Final Confrontation  
  
He winked smartly at the camera in passing as he darted quickly into a side-corridor, quickly resuming the sour look that had a tendancy to grow on any tournament participant.  
  
It was a matter of principals. If you had to die, you died with style. If you managed to live - you lived with style. It made life a whole lot more interesting - and it made death a whole lot more bearable.  
  
The corridor shone brightly with the illumination of the great mini-sun replicas contained inside the walls. the steel pattern on the floor was polished to perfection, the blue velvet on the walls smooth and impeccable. The air smelled clean, aside from the slightest hint of a smell of gunpowder lightly floating on the air from the adjacent chamber. It was perfection, there for them to make imperfect. Thousands of people had worked on preparing this event alone, yet mere dozen select ones were what mattered, they were. They were what mattered. They were the kings of the arena, the whole arena was the throneroom of each and every one.  
  
Wherever they went, they made theirs or it made them theirs. They walked and fought upon the sacred grounds of religions, they bled and died on history itself, upon the greatest technological and cultural feats belonging to humanity did they rule supreme. That was where they fought, that was where they lived, that was where they died. That was their purpose.  
  
They were what the world wanted, what it needed. Heroes, heroes that did what the masses could only dream of, what they would only want to dream of. Death and life, the famous and the infamous. The stuff of legends. Legends of the modern age.  
  
His head darted back and forth, watching each end of the corridor as he swiftly darted along it - savoring the mental image of himself in his great golden armor, slithering like a graceful tiger, his thick black hair geled to the same perfection as his surroundings. He savored the mental image of thousands, hundreds of thousands, of fans cheering him on.  
  
He was no fool, he knew he wasn't the best, he knew one day he'd die. All men die. But not all men die immortal. What could be a better way to go?  
  
His battle-honed mind registered movement as soon as someone appeared from the great dome ahead - hefting his trusty rocket launcher into position he prepared to dodge enemy fire.  
  
Seconds later, seconds that every single time seemed like minutes, he saw the flash of gold that meant safety for a while more. He met the eyes of his ally for the briefest moment, his face as impassive as his, his eyes as desperate and yet as exuberant as his. It was a great moment.  
  
So, naturally, it came as quite a shock when the high-velocity sniper bullet made contact with his forehead, penetrating the skull, digging deep into his brain and causing near-instant death. His handsome face looked eerily beautiful lying as dead as the arena itself on the floor - neatly placed among the perfection, with a neat bullet-hole on his forehead from a sniper he never even saw. It was the stuff of legends.  
  
What could be a better way to go?  
  
---  
  
Author's note:  
  
Thanks to the original reviewers if you're still around. Should be about... two or three years or so since I made the original now I should think. Decided it'd make a refreshing change from the original fantasy I usually write to come back and enhance a little bit on this, changed the original one chapter a bit (hopefully to the better) and decided to make a series out of the thing. Review please, it really does mean quite a lot to me, knowing whether or not what I write pleases at all... truth be told I like the original better, but it's more of an expiriment anyway, really - review please!! :) 


End file.
